Friday, July 2, 2004

Over

I just got back from jogging. I'm all sweaty. But, it was even easier today.

I think I'll go take a shower in a second then.

Here's a little story I started that I might not even continue. I might as well give it, since I won't be on here much until I get a job, and this is the last post I expect you'll all see for a while.

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one1one
I had just gotten the goddamned job-I was fucked for life; but hell, it’s all right with me, I thought to myself as I was getting ready. It was just the beginning, and beginnings were always interesting times: times when it was all new, not old, and it was just getting born; getting its debutante into the world. So it was all right me, I could live with it. At least that was what I kept telling myself as I looked at my face in the mirror.

That face was kind of strange. It had a look in its eye as if this was the end, maybe; and maybe it damn well was-the end of something and the beginning of something else. I sure hoped so-hoped I could handle it, even if it was damn torture from the deepest bowels of this hell-this world. So what I did was once I was dressed in my red shirt and red work slacks is I went out, and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Aren’t you excited,” she said to me-my mom. I looked up at her, with her hair and that look of questioning and worry. I kind of ran the question through my head, tried to filter it all around and make it come at coherent, clear as it could; and I didn’t think I could.

I let off a fake smile. “Yeah, I guess.” I made it sound as if I was sort of apprehensive-a little worried-but I was damn ready for it. I’m sure it ended up sounding worse, the way I say things; I’m not good at that kind of thing.

“You sure don’t look like it, you look like you’re afraid”; “Are you really sure you’re excited?” She came over to me, set down a steaming pile of eggs, bacon, buttered toast, and hash browns.

“Mom, don’t worry, I’ll do fine,” is all I could say. At that point she was just making it worse, and there wasn’t anything I could do to soothe what she was on to-so I handled it well as I could. I really just wanted to tell her to shut up, but then she’d say that was “sas” and “full of contempt.”

I picked up my fork and started eating; I just piled the stuff in my mouth. I really didn’t care for the taste or anything-I just wanted the damn day to get on its way, and over with, so it was behind me; far behind me.

When I was done, I went to go brush my teeth-it’s what I always do. When I’m nervous; also, my breath smelled from what I’d eaten. I didn’t want my breath to smell-I didn’t want some customer coming up and being repelled because my breath didn’t smell good. I finished it, and came out to the kitchen.

Then it was time to go. I grabbed my keys from the key holder, said “bye” to mom, and went out to my car. It was a piece of junk, but that didn’t bother me-it didn’t matter; as long as the car got me from point A to point B, that was good, good enough for me.

I put the key into the lock, unlocked my car and went in, quickly shutting the door, then putting the key into the ignition. Then I revved her up; she roared to life, after doing it a bit. The sound of it starting was kind of painful, but then again, it always was; the car was old, and an old car always sputters when it first starts, like it’s sick-like it needs help. But it was all right, once it got going-it sounded normal after a few seconds of being revved on.

Sound hit my ears, banging; it was the damn radio, I’d turned the thing up loud as I could, since there had been a good song on last time I was in the car. I turned that down, a dull sound still coming from my ears as it receded. That sudden sound had kind of scared me, but I was over it now; I careened my neck over my shoulder, so I could see in back of me. Looked for some cars, if any were coming.

None were.

I put her in reverse, holding my right foot on the brake. Then releasing, easing down my driveway and switching my right foot slightly on the gas pedal, I accelerated a bit; then I was over-sitting right on the street, ready to go. I drove on, to my first day of work.

It was a damn hot day that day, one of the hottest on record-it was about 100, even more later on in the day. The job I had gotten was at a meat stand-one of those ones where you grill up hamburgers, hot dogs, brats, chicken breasts, and sell them out in front of some grocery store, just as people are walking on in to get their groceries. I guess I was lucky to have gotten the job; but if you asked me, it didn’t matter much-I had a job and that was enough.

How I had gotten the job, since I was lucky (so my mom said), was because my friend had told me they were hiring out there; he worked at the grocery store, so he put in a good word for me out on the stand. I had filled out the application, turned it in, and was interviewed-then hired-right on the spot.

I still remember some of the questions the guy had asked me. He was this obese guy-short, and he had this big beard long enough to nudge against his bulging stomach. What he had asked me was, “Why would you like to work here?”; “How old are you?”; “How many hours are you willing to work?”; “What school do you go to?”; and some others like that, and then there was the last one, “Tell me one word to describe yourself, and explain why that word describes you.”

It was an impossible question when I thought about it, because there were so many words I could’ve chose; and on another hand, I really didn’t care-so I just pulled something out of thin air. “Creative,” is all I decided on; then, “Because there’s something great about making something. Kind of like that thing you create is an offspring of you, y’know. And it’s so much like you, and even if it’s not alive-maybe it’s just some painting, or some story, or something-it’s more alive than anything else you’ve damn well ever seen”; “-so alive that it just grows and grows until you have something when where you got this something, there was nothing-there was just imagination, blackness. I think that describes me, and why I chose it. I like working with nothing, and improvising, and seeing what I can make. It’s a nice feeling-sort of a feeling you’d get if you had a baby and first held it in your arms, and all your life watched it grow.”

The guy just looked at me with this doughnut “O” for a mouth, his beard dangling, his eyes sort of staring at me hard; and that was when I thought I’d just gotten the job right there-and I was right, too; I had the job. “Well,” he said, looking over my application (my writing was terrible on it-damn terrible; and where it’d asked for “past employers” all I’d written in my terrible scrawl was “I don’t have any ‘real’ work experience yet,” and did I mention my writing was terrible?). He acted as if he were concentrating hard on what I’d written there, like it was written in cold blood, or something.

Right then I got this feeling; an interesting feeling. I thought the guy felt pity for me, sort of; as if he’d been here before, and wanted to help a fellow out that was in a hard place (and damn right it was a hard place: my goddamned debutante, no less). “Well,” he said again, looking me right in the face; I gave him a stare right back, even though I hate looking in peoples’ faces. “I think you’ve got yourself a job,” is what he said, and I watched his lips as he said this; recorded in my mind for eternity him moving his lips; and as I think over it now, I see his lips moving, his beard following like a puppet being moved by strings. He mouths, “I” then “think” then “you’ve” then “got” then “yourself” then “a” then “job,” but the words don’t come out as I see it in my head, because at that moment, as I remember it, it was like time had frozen still; and I knew it was fate.
I didn’t brighten up, when he said; I didn’t smile some smile; I wasn’t proud-all I did was say, “OK,” and that was it.
“Be in at 12 tomorrow.” He held out his hand, a hand covered with hair on the top-just like his whole arm, and that damn beard. I shook it.
“I will,” I said to him, and then I got the hell up and left. I remember when I was driving back, I didn’t know what to think. Was I supposed to be happy? Was I supposed to be sad? Or was I supposed to be angry, or resentful, or morose, or what-what the hell was I supposed to feel? When I was driving, I tried to figure out what exactly it was I felt about this, and I came to a conclusion; damn right I did-the conclusion was I was indifferent. I didn’t care, I was apathetical. All I felt was as if a little weight had been lifted from my shoulders for the moment, because now my parents would be glad of their son, and stop pestering him; but that weight that had been lifted-I felt itcould crash down on me and crush my bones and kill me at any time, since I didn’t know what would happen next. They’d always told me to get a job, so it was sure they’d stop pestering me about it. But what was next? I still remember how they’d tell me to get a job, every damn day.
My mom’d say, “Dear, you need a job.” That was all I ever got from her, thank god. But my dad.

My dad’d say, “M’boy, listen-come on over here and talk to your old man.” So I would. He’d say, “Things’re changing for you-aren’t they? Damn straight they are. It’s that time, son; time to get a job,” and then he’d go into this big sermon on a job and what it meant, and why I had to get one, and on and on and on until I wanted to go hang myself by some noose, because of all the things he told me. I asked myself if this was really what I wanted to do with my life-work away for this society, and I decided there wasn’t much I could do. I wanted to tell him how alienated I felt, but I knew he wouldn’t have any of it. It was rubbish to him and always rubbish; it always would be. If I said it, he’d just say it was “hogwash.” I knew he would; he had in the past, when I tried to tell him how I felt. So I was quiet about it, and began doing what they told me to do-I looked for a job. I did it without any desire and without any want, but I did it. Just so they’d quiet down a bit.

But I did have different plans, and hell if those would ever see the light of day-hell if they would. Of course then I told myself I could do those “dreams” on the side, when it was late after working at whatever menial job it was I worked at. At first I felt I could, but I was disillusioned. Even if I did do those dreams, hell if they’d become reality. Because dreams are different than reality; dreams dwell in a land far far away, called imagination-and reality, well, he dwells in what’s real. I needed to wake up, and soon enough I would, and soon enough; well, soon enough other things would get in the way of what I had my heart set on. My heart would change in what it wanted.

That’s the thing, the future. We never see it coming.

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